The Man with the Twisted Lip
by LittlePippin76
Summary: Sort of a modern update of the ACD original, but mostly me having fun with Sherlock and John. Follows on from The Reigate Puzzle but stands alone too. Characters belong to other, smarter people. Please read and review. Now complete. Pip.
1. Chapter 1

**With the Reigate story, I sort of felt that I let the characters and chat get in the way of the actual mystery a bit. I didn't mind that too much, but I did think 'I'd better be more mystery focussed with the next one!'.**

**That didn't happen.**

**I hope you enjoy this anyway. It's all just a bit of vaguely humorous fun really!**** It's a three parter, and you'll get a chapter per day.**

* * *

Chapter One

"I'm still not sure about the colour."

"Really? Do you think you could possibly get sure about the colour before I start the third wall? Because I'd like to be finished some time before its eighteenth birthday."

"I think the wallpaper at this end is perfect though."

"Good." It had taken John four attempts to get the 'feature wall' paper hung straight. He hadn't questioned why a tiny baby might need a feature wall in its bedroom.

"Do you think we should scatter some gold-leaf squares over the yellow?"

John turned around on the ladder and looked at his wife.

"Gold-leaf squares?"

"Yeah. Not big ones. Tile sized or maybe a bit smaller. Just little squares of gold scattered over the yellow."

"Small, gold-leaf squares."

"You think it's a bad idea."

"Well, I think it might be… how I shall put this? I think it might be a _pregnancy_ idea."

"No!"

"OK, let's do this. We'll delay the gold-leaf squares until after the baby's born. Then, if you still feel he or she needs gold-leaf squares to decorate the room he or she isn't even going to sleep in for the first six months, well at that point I'll willingly put up as many gold-leaf squares as you so desire."

She smiled at him. "Thank you. You know I love you."

"I know." He came down from the ladder to kiss her for a while. "I love you too."

"And you're absolutely sure you couldn't tell from the sonogram?"

"I honestly couldn't."

"OK. Good."

"I love you, my crazy, deranged wife."

She laughed. "Careful! You're getting paint on me!"

"I don't care!" He kissed her again.

The intercom buzzed.

"I'll get it!" She said pulling away from him.

John went back up the ladder to continue painting. After a few minutes he became aware of the sound of someone sobbing in the front room. He could recognise that it wasn't Mary well enough, but he felt he ought to go and see what was happening. He wiped his hands on his paint-spattered t-shirt and wandered through.

Mary was sat on the sofa with Kate, an old school-friend, who was leaning on Mary's shoulder as she cried. John had known Kate almost as long as he'd known Mary and his heart sank a little at her presence here tonight. In his opinion Kate was quite sweet but somewhat inept at handling her own life, so she tended to lean on friends to help her slightly too often. This wasn't something John particularly minded in the general scheme of things, but he felt slightly annoyed that she felt she should put upon his six-months pregnant wife.

Before either of them had noticed him in the room, he knew that the issue would be with Kate's husband, David, who had a drugs habit. David appeared to try reasonably hard, but not quite hard enough, to kick the habit. After each attempt at rehab he would come back to Kate's waiting arms and she'd be overjoyed, but then a few months later he'd be up to his old tricks. Alas, Kate loved him, and every time he stopped she believed with her whole being that he wouldn't relapse this time.

"Do you know where he's likely to be?" Mary asked her.

Mary sat up, wiped her face and nodded. "I know he'll be at that place in Wapping. I know it."

"OK, let me just get my jeans on and I'll come with you."

"You'll do no such thing!" John said.

"John, Kate can't possibly go on her own! It's a drugs-house and she's… well, she's Kate!"

"And you're six months pregnant!"

"I'm not incapable, I'm just pregnant."

"I know, and even if you weren't, I still wouldn't let you go! Not because you'd be anything less than brilliant, and of course you don't need my permission, but I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to you! I'll go!"

"You really wouldn't mind coming with me?" Kate asked him.

"Really, Kate, there's no point you coming. I'll go and find David and bring him home." He had a moment of wishing he didn't have to bring David into his nice flat while it was clean and nearly prepared for a baby. On the other hand, he remembered just last week he'd had Sherlock here with a deep cut on his forehead, dripping blood over the hall carpet and the bathroom and Mary hadn't been anything other than welcoming to him. "OK, give me the address."

So it was that John found himself knocking at the door of a grim looking house in Wapping. He'd changed out of his painting clothes and almost as an afterthought he'd retrieved his gun from the top of the wardrobe and the ammunition clip from his sock drawer. He'd prefer not to use it and almost regretted bringing it, but he hadn't been to this particular house before so it seemed wise.

After a several knocks the front door was opened by a huge, tattooed man who grunted at him.

"Excuse me, Mate, I believe a friend of mine is here. His wife's worried about him and I said I'd bring him home. Do you mind if I come in?"

There was a further non-committal grunt.

"Honestly, I'm not looking for any trouble. All I want to do is to come in, get my friend, pay any owed money, and leave."

There was a flash of interest at the promise of money and the man stood back to let John push past.

"His name's David Tollgate. Do you know where he is?"

Another grunt. John accepted it and started working his way through the house. He found David on the second floor, in a stupor, eyes unfocussed and with the evidence of recent vomiting over his clothing. John checked his pulse and his eyes and decided that though he was very stupid he wasn't in any immediate danger. He tapped David's cheek lightly.

"David? David are you with me?"

"John? John! Hey! Hey it's John! John… Watson!"

"Yes, that's right. David, Kate's at my place. She's worried sick about you!"

"Kate? No! No Kate's at work, mate!"

"No she isn't. David, today's Saturday."

"No it's not! John, mate, it's Thursday!"

"No, David, listen to me. You've been here three days. You have to leave now. You have to come with me, get cleaned up, and go home and promise, and I mean absolutely promise Kate that you're not going to do this again. And you have to keep that promise, because she's not going to hang around forever!" John doubted these words even as he said them. They were effective though, and David started to cry.

"Kate? My Kate? Lovely Kate! I don't want her upset, I really don't! Oh, poor, poor Kate!"

"Come on now!" John pulled David to his feet and helped him downstairs. John was still mentally geared up for some kind of trouble, so when a ragged, long-haired man pushed into him hard, he squared up to him slightly. The man appeared to stumble to the other wall and John settled down again. He was surprised to find there was suddenly a slip of paper in his hand. He turned around but the man had vanished.

He continued to lead David down the stairs and was somewhat relieved that the entrance hallway was empty and no-one appeared to want to hold him accountable for any of David's debts. On the street he looked at the paper he'd been given. He was surprised and disappointed to see it was Sherlock's handwriting.

'_Lose the sop. Wait for me outside. SH.'_

John muttered a curse to himself. He looked over at David, who was looking up at the sky, bemused by its presence. He knew there was no way of refusing Sherlock's instruction.

"David! Come on, let's find you a cab."

He had to walk a couple of streets before they were at a road busy enough to find a cab. He put David in it, gave his address and sent them on their way. As he walked back, he called Mary.

"Did you find him?" she asked, straight away.

"Yep. He's on his way to you. Sorry, love, I'm not with him. I'm really sorry."

"What's happened? What is it?"

"I don't know. David's fine, but, damn it, Mary, I think Sherlock's in there too."

"Oh, John!"

"I know. I'm just hanging around to check on him. I'll be back soon. I promise."

He put his phone away and walked, feeling quite dispirited, back to the house. The long-haired man was stood outside, though when he saw John, he started walking towards him.

"Follow me," he said as he passed him.

John turned and followed Sherlock along several streets. After about five minutes, Sherlock straightened up, pulled the wig from his head and laughed.

"Oh, John! For a second I honestly thought you'd fallen in the mire like the rest of us. I was that surprised to see you there!"

"Me?" John said, furiously. "Sherlock, what the hell were _you_ doing there? You said you'd stopped all of this! You promised!"

Sherlock quietened at the hurt look on John's face.

"John, I wasn't using in there if that's what you think."

"What the hell were you doing then? Let me see your arms!"

Sherlock was surprised but he dutifully held his arms out to John who examined them. Sherlock waited until he was satisfied.

"Good. John, just out of interest, do you really think that I used to dress in such a heavy disguise just to go and use some drugs?"

John thought about this for a moment. "No. OK, I suppose no, you wouldn't."

"No. I'm working a case, John."

"In a crack house?"

"Yes. This might be a surprise to you, John, but houses like that one aren't exactly the most moral establishments."

John bit his cheek and turned away.

"John, I'm not taking any drugs. I'm not! There have been a number of people who have entered that house who have never come out again. The wife of one such person hired me. Oddly, they didn't want Sherlock Holmes, known associate of the police, to come in. So I went in as Sticky, a useful little character I sometimes like to don. OK?"

John sighed. "Yes. Yes OK. Right let's get a cab."

"We don't need to, I borrowed a car. It's just down here." They rounded a corner and John groaned when he saw the flashy black Ferrari parked at the side of the road. Sherlock pulled a key out of his pocket and pressed the 'unlock' button. Further down the road, the lights of a small blue Peugeot flashed.

"What?" Sherlock asked him. "You didn't think anyone would lend me that one did you? Get in, I'll drive you home. Well, unless you want to come down to Sevenoaks with me."

"I don't. But home would be grand." He got into the passenger seat. "You know, I didn't think you could drive. I was fairly sure you couldn't, actually."

"Of course I can drive." Sherlock put his seatbelt on, put the key in the ignition and started the car. He nodded with satisfaction. John began to grow alarmed as it took a while for Sherlock to work out the mechanics of the clutch but he finally found first gear. He smiled at John and set off. The car kangarooed several feet down the road towards the Ferrari before it stalled and thankfully stopped with about an inch to spare.

"Oh!" Sherlock said, his eyes bulging. "Don't want to hit that!"

"Sherlock!"

"Calm down! Look, it's just a bit harder than it looks, OK?"

"I thought you said you could drive!"

"I thought I could! I've seen it done!"

"Are you even insured?"

"Insured?"

"Get out! Give me the keys and get out!"

Sherlock handed the keys across to John and got out. There was a moment as they walked around the back of the car where they danced slightly from side to side before John stopped and glared and Sherlock stepped out of his way. John got into the driver's seat and put his head in his hands.

"OK. All right. Where are we going?"

"Sevenoaks."

"Fine. OK, let's go. No, wait, I'm going to call Mary first." He took his phone out and looked at Sherlock for a moment. "I'm going to make the phone call across the road."

"Why? I don't mind that you're talking to your wife."

"You might when you hear what I have to say about you. I'm taking the keys."

John returned less than three minutes later.

"Right. Sevenoaks. Oh, Mary hates you by the way."

"No she doesn't!"

"I do then."

"No you don't!"

"I should though."

"Perhaps."

John started the car, reversed slightly and pulled out towards the main road. Sherlock waited until the first red light before he looked at John.

"I can still be Godless-father can't I?"

John tried not to smile. "Maybe. We'll see."

Sherlock smiled, content that at some point he would be forgiven for whatever had irked John this time. He let his head sink down to his chest and he thought hard about the case.

They were just on the outskirts of Sevenoaks when Sherlock raised his head again.

"You need to turn right here."

John dutifully manoeuvred.

"Where now?"

"Keep going for a bit. I'll tell you." He looked over at John. "You know what I really like about you, John?"

"I'm a mug?"

"No…"

"I can drive? I've got a gun?"

"No, though those are undoubtedly helpful. It's that you're extremely good at being quiet. You don't pepper me with questions even when you're curious. It's very helpful to me."

"Right. Good. Though you should know that on this occasion it's because I'm not talking to you. Still straight?"

"Yep. Turn left at the pub. So do want to hear about the case?"

"No. I want to drop you off and go home to my wife."

"Fine. Be like that then. Left here." He watched John drive for a moment, assessing the amount of tension in his eyes and jaw. "How's Mary?"

"Mary's fine."

"Pregnancy going as expected?"

"Yep."

"Didn't you have a scan done last week?"

"It was last month."

"Oh. Well did it go OK?"

"Fine."

Sherlock nodded. "Good. I'm pleased. Do you know if it's a boy or a girl yet? I'm told you can sometimes tell from the scan."

"We asked not to be told."

"Hm. Interesting."

"What's interesting?"

"Yes. Your choice of words there. You're telling the truth but not answering the question. You do know, don't you? You don't think you should know, but you do."

John sighed. "OK, Mary wants to find out when it's born, and I sort of mostly agree, but when the sonographer told us to look away, I may have accidentally peeped."

"So what is it?"

"I can't tell you! There's no way you're finding out before Mary does! And don't tell her I know either."

"I won't need to. You'll give yourself away long before it's born."

"I haven't done yet! Now, where next?"

Sherlock looked out of the window. "I'm lost."

John pulled in to the side of the road and put his head in his hands. "You're the giddy limit, Sherlock! You know that?"

"Sorry. Look, just double back to the pub and I can find it from there. I think we went a junction too far."

"Fine!"

"Look, I'm sorry! My geographical knowledge of places outside of London isn't that great! I feel that my excellent knowledge of London more than makes up for it! Don't you?"

"I said fine."

"Fine."

They drove in silence for a while.

"The baby hates me," John said.

"What are you talking about? Of course the baby doesn't hate you!"

"Oh I know it doesn't really hate me. It's just that Mary feels it kick all the time but when I try to feel it, it stops. It feels like it's not even born and already it's not talking to me."

"John, really, the baby doesn't know you yet. And I'm fairly sure that even after it's born it won't have the capacity to actually hate you for a good few years! It won't start hating you until it's at least two or three!"

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"I was being sarcastic."

"I know. I was rising above it."

"Ah. No wonder I didn't recognise it."

"Left here."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!"

They drove on for a while.

"Have you thought of any names yet?"

"Yes, but we're not telling you them."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll comment."

"No I won't!"

"Fine then. For a boy, we're thinking of Jack."

"Urgh. Dull."

"I told you!"

"No, I'm not commenting! If you want an extremely dull name for your firstborn son, then Jack is definitely the way to go. Well done for thinking of it! What else is on the list?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Fine. Be like that. I'm lost again, by the way."

"OK, we're going back to the high street and you're going to ask someone for directions?"

"Why me?"

"Because you're the one who's lost."

"Fine! OK then!"

They made their way back to the high-street and pulled over to ask someone at a bus stop for directions. Sherlock was apologetic that his driver didn't know the area well and he was extremely charming. For a moment the man in question looked eager to get in the car with them. They got away with just directions though, and were able to get on their way quite quickly.

John was fuming.

"Do you know what name might be nice for a girl?" Sherlock asked him. There was silence. "Phaedra."

"I'm not calling my daughter Phaedra!"

"Why not! It's nice! It's interesting!"

"It sounds like she's some sort of mythical being who'll set fire to people's heads!"

"That's not what it means! It's Greek. It stems from the word for 'bright'. I thought that was nice."

"I'm not calling my daughter Phaedra."

"Do you want to hear about this case or not?"

"If I do, will you stop trying to name my daughter?"

"So it's a girl."

"No, you were naming girls, so I said 'daughter'."

"Yes, I will stop trying to name you're _daughter._"

John sighed. "Fine. OK. Tell me."

Sherlock grinned. "Mr Neville and Mrs Fiona Sinclair have been married twenty-two years. He's worked in London's financial district for most of that time, but three years ago, he took a new job. His new employment was for an investment company called York-White, and they're based in Wapping. Years passed and he seemed perfectly content in his job and she was content that he was content and apparently didn't need any more details of her husband's work.

"On Tuesday of this week, Mrs Sinclair was invited to lunch in London with some old friends. The lunch was called off as one of the friends was ill. Mrs Sinclair was already on route, so she decided to continue on her train and meet her husband for lunch instead. She tried his mobile phone but he didn't answer. She decided to surprise him, and she got into a cab at Waterloo and gave the address for York-White Investments as Vinegar Street, Wapping. Imagine her surprise when the cab pulled up at the very house you found me in earlier today. She got out, but asked the cab to wait. Her intention was to find out from someone in the house whether there was another Vinegar Street, and to redirect the cab if necessary.

"When she was on the pavement, she heard a cry, and looking up to the dormer window in the attic, she saw her husband. He'd cried out, then he was pulled backwards away from the window. That's the last time that anyone saw him.

"The attic has been converted into a separate studio flat, which has been taken by an old army chap, Hugh Boone. He was severely injured in the first Gulf war, poor sod. He was left with a disfigured face, several burn left damage and a cut too, the scar of which pulls his lip up into a permanent sneer. He works as a concierge at The Harrington."

"That's four star!"

"Yes, is there a reason that a disfigured ex-soldier shouldn't be working in a four star hotel?"

"I don't think so, but I'm surprised that the management there agree with me."

"Well, he earns enough there to pay his rent on the studio every month without fail. Apparently he keeps himself to himself and he's never frequented the main house. Mrs Sinclair called the police and they dutifully searched the flat. Boone swears blind that he's never laid eyes on Mr Neville Sinclair. Alas for him, Mr Sinclair's clothes were found in the garden of the Wapping house, just as if they'd been thrown from the upstairs window. He was taken in for questioning and they're about to formally arrest him I'd imagine."

"So why are you involved? Does the wife not believe that this Boone chap did it?"

"Well, the twist in the tail of this tale, John, is that they never recovered a body."

"What?"

"Just as I say. There was no body. No-one left the flat while Mrs Sinclair was watching it, and there was no-one in the flat except Boone when the police got in. Consequently, Mrs Sinclair isn't sure whether her husband is dead or alive and being held captive somewhere. She's leaning quite hard for me to suggest the latter to the police. The police aren't interested though they'd quite like to resolve the situation with Boone and they're running out of time. If it wasn't for the clothing, there's no reason to believe Mister Sinclair was ever there apart from Mrs Sinclair's word and the clothes, which could have been planted at any time. There's no way through from the attic studio into the main house, that, by the way, was the reason for my presence there today. Mrs Sinclair has hired me to find out what has happened to her husband and I have to admit, I'm enjoying the mystery. Here we are. Here's the house. I knew I'd find it eventually. I am glad you're here with me tonight, John."

John was surprised at the sincerity of Sherlock's voice at these words. "Why?"

"Because I have to go into that house and tell Mrs Sinclair that I believe her husband is dead. Despite what people might think, it's not the sort of job I enjoy. I feel I've only half solved this one. There's something eluding me, but I honestly can't think of any way that Mr Sinclair is still alive, and now I have to go and explain that to Fiona Sinclair."

John watched him for a while, and then nodded. "Yeah. It's a horrible job OK. But it's not going to get done while we're sat here. Come on. Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

They eventually found their way to an affluent area of Sevenoaks. The street that the Sinclairs lived on was on was wide and lined with trees. The Sinclair's house was large, with a horse-shoe drive and wrought iron gates to drive through. It was clear that Mister Sinclair was, or at least had been, making good money.

Sherlock rang the doorbell and stood back to wait for Mrs Sinclair to open the door.

"Oh, you're back then," she said when she'd done so. She was smartly dressed and appeared to care about her appearance. Despite the clear signs of stress and upset, she had taken the time to be neat and tidy and she was wearing makeup. There was an edge to her voice that John wasn't quite comfortable with, though he reminded himself that she was probably prepared for bad news.

He followed Sherlock into the lounge of the house.

"Mrs Sinclair, this is my friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson. He sometimes helps me with my enquiries."

John was considered worthy of a glance.

"Mister Holmes, before we go on, I have to know this: Do you think my husband is still alive?"

Sherlock looked at her directly. "I'm sorry, Mrs Sinclair, I do not."

"Ha!" she said. "That's all you know! If he's dead, then how is it that he wrote to me on Thursday?"

Sherlock was startled. "He _wrote_ to you?"

"Yes he did! And it's just like my brother told me! You're here to take my money for doing absolutely nothing! You've just waited around, until you decided to conveniently tell me he's dead and rob me of my money!"

"Mrs Sinclair, I have no intention of taking your money, I never have. I took the case because it was interesting, that's all. May I see your husband's letter?"

Mrs Sinclair diminished slightly. "I thought… I thought…."

"Mrs Sinclair, I can understand why you thought that, I really can, but it's not my intention. Besides, you didn't hire me to tell you if your husband was alive or dead, you hired me to find him or his body, and I still intend to do that."

She nodded. John felt that she looked as though she'd shrunk slightly. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, it's just…"

"It's fine, it's perfectly all right, Mrs Sinclair. This week has been stressful for you, and I can understand why you hoped that I was being deceitful. Can I see the letter now please?"

She rubbed her forehead for a moment and then nodded and went to get the letter from a bureau.

"I need the envelope too," Sherlock told her.

She nodded again and handed the letter and the envelope across. Sherlock sat down on the sofa to study them closely.

"I'm sorry, Mister… I'm sorry…"

"Watson. John Watson."

"Yes. Can I get you a drink, at all?"

"No thank you. I'm not staying."

"Yes, we'll be staying overnight, didn't I say?" Sherlock said. John turned to glare at him but he was ignored. "Mrs Sinclair, are you sure that this is your husband's writing? Do you have something I can compare it to?"

"It's not his best handwriting. I mean it's the sort of thing he scrawls as a note when he's not expecting someone else to read it, but it's his. I think I have an old diary somewhere that you can compare it with." She left the room.

"Sherlock, I can't stay here tonight. I'd better get off and head back on the train."

"Mm. Here, read this letter."

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

"Can't stay, catch the train, blah, blah, blah. Fine, go in a minute, but first look at this."

John sighed and took it from him.

The letter was a single piece of A4 paper, not particularly good quality, and it had been written using a biro. There was no sent-from address but there was a date written in basic numerical form.

'_Dear Fiona,_

_I'm afraid to say I've got myself into a bit of a mess. I can't get back to you for a while, but please don't worry, I will be back soon. We'll both be laughing about all of this in a few months' time._

_For now, all my love,_

_Neville.'_

John read it through and shrugged. "I'm not sure what this is meant to be telling me, Sherlock."

"No, nor am I. It's the oddest thing." He looked up as Fiona Sinclair came back into the room and handed across a diary. Sherlock took it and the letter and he put them side by side on his lap so that he could compare.

John stood watching him, not wanting to disturb him.

"It's clearly his handwriting," Sherlock said. "The envelope isn't though."

"It is!" Mrs Sinclair insisted.

"The name is, but the rest has been filled in by someone else. I wonder why they did that if he was allowed to write your name on it. And moreover, I wonder why he _wrote_. He didn't call, he didn't email or even text. He _wrote._"

"Surely the most important thing is that it proves that Neville is alive somewhere!"

"No, it proves that Neville _was_ alive somewhere and expected to remain so. The letter could have been written at any time ad then saved and dated when your husband was no longer useful, Mrs Sinclair. It could have been dated with any date, the numbers would be the least complicated part to forge…"

"Mrs Sinclair, are you OK?" John cut in. She had turned pale, and now she swayed slightly and John gently guided her to a sofa. "Put your feet up here now, and breathe nice and slowly. OK? Can I get you some water?"

She nodded. "I'm so sorry."

"It's fine."

"I don't know what I'll do if he's really dead! What if he's being held? Or tortured? Oh God! He may have driven me to distraction sometimes but I love him! I just don't know what I'll do…" She stopped trying to talk and just sobbed.

"Sherlock, do you think you could fetch some water please?" John asked, looking at him.

Sherlock nodded. He looked quite shocked at this turn of events and he seemed eager to leave the room.

"I'm so sorry!" Mrs Sinclair said again. "I didn't mean to fall apart like that."

"Don't worry. It's clearly been an incredibly stressful week for you, and you'd only be able to hold it together for so long. Look, the letter, Sherlock didn't say that it definitely showed that your husband was dead. He was just voicing possibilities. It's what he does, he likes to think of everything he can and then he discounts anything that seems unlikely and implausible. I don't know what he thinks about the letter yet, but he certainly finds it intriguing, and he still wants to find your husband."

"Can you ask him?"

"Ask him what?"

"Ask him what he thinks the most plausible thing is? Please? I don't know how to talk to him. He's frightening."

"He doesn't mean to be."

"When my brother came over to talk to me about it, he made it all make sense. I suddenly felt that I knew what Sherlock was thinking and doing and then Sherlock came in and undid it all."

"I've known him five years and I still never know what he's thinking."

"But you know how to talk to him, don't you? Will you stay for a bit? Please? I just need someone to tell me what he's thinking."

John sighed. Mrs Sinclair looked tearful and shaken but he didn't think she was actually ill and needed his presence here all night. He looked up and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway with a glass of water, out of her sight, nodding at him.

"Please!" he mouthed.

John sighed again. "OK, I'll stay and help Sherlock. I'll need to call my wife and check that everything's OK at home."

"Thank you, Mister Watson."

Sherlock came in and handed her the water and then backed off.

"Mrs Sinclair, I'd like to study this letter and think about it for a while. Is that acceptable to you?"

"Yes, of course. Thank you."

"We'll take it to the hotel, but I assure you I'll bring it back in the morning."

"Oh, don't fuss about a hotel, please. Half the rooms in the house are empty now that Charlie's fled the nest. Please just stay here. Come with me now, I'll show you where you can sleep."

They didn't argue. Sherlock didn't because his mind was already elsewhere, and John didn't because he suspected that Mrs Sinclair desperately wanted someone else in the house tonight. They followed her upstairs and she showed them two rooms opposite to each other. She pointed out the bathroom and begged their forgiveness for retiring early.

John went into his room and sat down on the bed. He toed his shoes off and lay back, covering his face with his hands. He wasn't remotely surprised when the door opened and his bed sagged slightly with the weight of someone sitting on it.

"Thanks for staying," Sherlock said. "I hate it when they get all hysterical like that."

"She was a long way off hysterical, and you're a wuss."

"She was hysterical enough, and no, I'm not."

"Pass me my phone."

"Where is it?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

Sherlock picked up John's jacket from where he'd thrown it onto the bed and extracted his phone from it. He threw it to John.

"You've brought your gun. Why did you bring your gun?"

"In case I stumbled across an extremely irritating ex-flatmate and felt the need to kill him."

"Don't be silly. Oh, yes, you went to that house looking for your friend. You needn't have bothered with the gun. Most of them in there are completely harmless and would fall over if you just walked past them determinedly. Though I wouldn't like to come up against Stoll in a fight. He's the chap on the door."

"Shut up, Sherlock." John dialled Mary. He felt a little guilty when she picked up instantly, clearly waiting for him to call.

"John? Are you OK? What's happening? Is Sherlock OK?"

"He's fine. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry he's fine, actually."

"John what are you talking about?"

"Sorry. Sherlock is working a case. He really needed my help to get down to Sevenoaks, so I brought him here intending to drop him off, but then the person whose husband is missing got really upset and then he freaked out and now I'm here too, babysitting him, and making sure he doesn't upset her too much. I'm sorry. I'm a rubbish husband."

Mary laughed. "It's fine, John. I'm just glad you're OK. And that he is too. Can you come back in the morning though? I really want the nursery finished and the paint has all been left open and stuff's everywhere…"

"Oh God, sorry! I'm sorry I left it in such a state."

"No it's fine. Well, actually I am a touch pissed off but I know you wouldn't have dashed off if you could help it. And I_ am_ glad you're OK."

"OK. Thanks. And I'm sorry. And if you want little gold-leaf squares, you should go ahead and order some online. Is Kate still there?"

"No, they left. It's just me and the baby tonight."

"OK. Well if you need me to come home, just call. I mean it, at any time for any reason. I'm more than happy to ditch the sod here and come back to you. I'll hire a plane if I have to."

She laughed again. "No, actually you should try to have some fun with it. It might be the last chance you have to run around with him for a while. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I love you."

"I love you too. See you tomorrow."

John hung up.

"Is she OK?"

"Mary? Yeah. She's… she's great. She's great, Sherlock. I'm so damned lucky."

"Mm. You're not going to get all soppy are you?"

"No! It's not 'soppy' to recognise the greatness of your partner sometimes!"

"I was thinking," Sherlock said. "Would you mind if I watched the birth?"

"What?"

"Of your baby. I think I'd find it interesting."

"No. No, Sherlock, you cannot watch my wife push a baby through her vagina because you might find it interesting!"

"Oh. Will you video it for me?"

"No. Mary has been very clear about when and where photographs might be taken, and quite detailed about what they might be taken of. I'm going to go to bed." Sherlock didn't move from the end of the bed. "And hopefully to sleep." Sherlock didn't move.

John sighed. He stood up, removed his socks, trousers and watch and got into bed. He deliberately kicked Sherlock quite hard as he stretched out. Sherlock responded by moving to one side and scooting back until he was sat one side of the double bed, leaning with his back against the headboard.

"You know what I don't understand?" he asked. John covered his face with his arms. "Why didn't he write the whole address?"

"I don't care. You should feel free to go and think about it in your own room."

"I'm perfectly comfortable here, thank you."

"Marvellous."

John rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes. Sherlock glanced at him.

"If my parents had had another child, a boy specifically, they'd have called him Sheridan. I just mention this in passing."

John opened his eyes, frowned, and rolled back onto his back.

"Sheridan?"

"Yes. I'm just saying."

"I think that your non-existent brother had a very lucky escape."

"You don't like it?"

"Sherlock, just so you know, I'm not going to name my potential future son anything that can be shortened to 'Sherry'."

"Why not?"

"OK, you went to school didn't you? For some of those years it was an all-boys school. Are you honestly telling me that no-one ever once shortened your name to Shirley, and that when they did it didn't bother you?"

Sherlock stiffened slightly. "Fine." He was quiet a moment. "What about for a second name? Perhaps in honour of m… of my non-existent brother."

"No." He looked up at Sherlock who was looking strangely tense as he sat there, staring at the wall. "We were thinking of Meredith for a girl."

"Meredith?"

"Yes. Do you have an opinion about Meredith?"

"It's quite nice."

"Really?"

"I'm not allowed to have opinions."

"And yet you do."

"I don't like it. It's fussy and strangely old fashioned."

"Really, _Sherlock? _We'd shorten it to Merry. I think that's sweet."

"Urgh. Now she sounds like one of those little people in that book you made me read. Or you've fated her to grow up miserable and depressed. What else is on the list?"

"Meredith, Sophie, Gertrude and Scarlet. Meredith's coming top for now."

"Gertrude?"

"Yeah. I think it's a pregnancy choice."

"Mm?"

"Some of the things Mary's suggested recently have been slightly less than sane and more than a little hormonal."

"Ah. That explains gold-leaf squares."

"Yeah. And that reminds me, when you've finished the case, you have to come and help me paint the nursery."

"Why?"

"It's a god-father thing. You have to."

"I'm not a god-father."

"Godless-fathers have to do it too."

"Will the others?"

"No, just you."

"You could have said no, you know."

"What?"

"You could have said 'No, Sherlock, you're being a fool, I'm not getting in the car with you, and I need to go home to Mary.' You could have just said no."

"Would you have listened?"

"After a while."

"Yeah. I know I could have. I came anyway. I made the choice, Sherlock, I don't really blame you."

"Good. Because I don't want Mary to be cross with you or you to be cross with me. Now be quiet. I need to think and I can't get a thought in with all this inane chatter about your future daughter."

"Or son."

"Yeah."

John smiled, rolled over and closed his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

John woke up slowly. He felt strangely peaceful and relaxed and he wondered how he'd managed to get through a whole night without Mary stealing the entire duvet and some of his pillows too.

As a low, bass snore reached his consciousness the relaxed feeling vanished. He woke up fully and rolled over. At some point in the night Sherlock had shuffled down the bed into a more comfortable position and had fallen asleep. If John had been in the right sort of mood, he'd have given him some credit for not getting under the covers, but he wasn't in the right sort of mood.

He kicked Sherlock reasonably hard. "Wake up!"

Sherlock woke instantly and sat up quickly. "'m not asleep!"

"You were snoring."

"Then I couldn't have been asleep. I don't snore."

"I though you had to think about the case!"

"I did!"

"You were asleep!"

"I was not!" He wiped some telltale spittle from his chin.

"Did you solve it?" John asked him.

Sherlock looked annoyed. "No." He rallied. "Come on, get up, there's work to be done!" He got up and walked to the window to gaze out of it for a while.

"What work?"

"More thinking. I want to go back to the relevant scenes too."

"Well, thinking's your area. I'm going home to Mary."

"We need to get into the studio flat. The police wouldn't let me in, there's no access from the house downstairs, and it's been boarded up. The key to the whole thing must be in that flat somewhere. I have to get in. It means house-breaking though."

"Well, you're on your own there."

"It's house-breaking, John. You like that!"

"No I don't. You like that and you want me to like it too."

"I can't possibly go on my own! I might mess something up! Fiona might cry again!"

"Tough."

"John!"

"Last night, you said that if I said no, you'd accept it."

"I said after a while I'd accept it."

"How long will it take?"

"I don't know. Probably six months or so."

"I can wait."

"No you can't."

John sighed and sat up. "Can I borrow your toothbrush?"

"Why didn't you bring yours?"

"Why didn't I take my toothbrush to a drug-house to pick up a friend, an excursion I expected to last for about an hour?"

"What friend? Oh, your other one. Fine, whatever, you can use it when I've finished." He left the room.

John checked his phone for the time and to see if Mary had sent a text or a message and was simultaneously pleased and disappointed to find there was not. He got out of bed and pulled his trousers back on.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway with his toothbrush in one hand and a bath sponge in the other, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"I need to see inside that flat! The key to this whole thing is in there. I'm even reasonably sure that I know what it is!"

John couldn't help being infected by Sherlock's excitement.

"OK. I'll come." He grabbed Sherlock's toothbrush on the way past him.

oOo

Sherlock had scribbled a note for Mrs Sinclair who hadn't woken up by the time they left the house. John had wanted to read what he'd put just in case it hadn't been worded tactfully, but Sherlock pulled him from the house.

"Here, the car keys. I'm assuming you want to drive again." Sherlock said.

"Whose car is it anyway?"

"It's Fiona Sinclair's of course!"

"Then lets leave it here for her, shall we?"

"No! She lent it to me for the use on the case! I'm going to London, it will be quicker and much less irritating than waiting for a bus, then waiting for the train and so on. Besides, you're heading towards London so you won't get lost this time. And it's about to rain."

"Sherlock…"

"Fine, you go on the train, I'll drive and I'll meet you there." He unlocked the car and opened the driver's door. He grinned as John pulled him away and snatched the key from him.

"I hate you, I hate you, I really, really _hate_ you," John mumbled as he got in.

Sherlock continued grinning as he sat down. He pushed his seat back and put his feet up on the dashboard purely to irritate John. After a few minutes he found this uncomfortable so he put them down again.

"Remind me again when Gertrude is due?"

"No."

"Are you going to be this sulky when your daughter is as annoying as I am?"

"She won't be. And she might be a boy. Damn it!"

"You don't want a girl?"

"Of course I want a girl! I just don't want _you_ finding out she's a girl before Mary does!"

"You could just tell Mary."

"No, I can't because she wants the surprise."

"She'll have the surprise, she'll just have it now."

"She's worried that she'll be disappointed if she finds out now, but she knows she won't be disappointed when they present her with her new baby, so she'll find out then."

"Does she want a boy or a girl particularly?"

"No, she says she'll happy with either."

"But she also thinks she might be disappointed."

"Yes. It's not logical, it's not rational, it might not even be sensible, but she's the one carrying our child. It's inside her body, she's the one being careful of everything she eats and drinks. She's the one having to deal with the morning sickness and the back aches and not being able to sleep in a comfortable position. So right now, I'm going along with it."

"Apart from, you're not."

"It was an accident! I only saw a tiny, split second and you know what, I could very easily be wrong! Sonograms aren't the easiest thing to read anyhow!"

"You seem to be getting very worked up about this."

John pulled into a lay-by and turned to face Sherlock.

"It's my baby, Sherlock. It's my child! Whatever might happen in the future, I'm only going to have the opportunity to become a father this once. And by that I mean, this is the only time at which I'll stop being 'not a father' and suddenly be 'a father', but on top of that, I understand that this might be the one and only chance we get to have a child _at all_. I don't want to screw it up! It's important! Not to you, obviously, but it is to _me_ and I don't want to make an enormous hash of it! And even more than that, right now I want it to be complete and utterly perfect for Mary, and so I'd appreciate you not coming along and trying to spoil it all!"

Sherlock looked contrite. "I'm sorry. I'm honestly not trying to spoil anything, John. I was just teasing you, that's all."

John sniffed and nodded. "I know! And I don't mean to be all sensitive! It's just… you're teasing me about something that's really important."

"OK. I'll stop teasing you about Gertrude."

John couldn't help but grin and he looked away. Sherlock felt relieved that he hadn't really overstepped the mark. He decided he'd just been very clearly told where that mark was.

John started driving again. "She's due early February. They're saying around the tenth."

"Wow! That's soon!"

"Yep."

"It's just after Christmas really."

"Yep."

"Are you ready?"

"Nope."

"Are you panicking?"

"Yes. But it's OK, because you're going to help paint the nursery and assemble all the flat-pack furniture for it. I'm extremely relieved knowing I have a friend on-side to help with all of that."

"OK."

They drove on in silence for a while.

oOo

The house in Vinegar Street looked quiet and dull. Sherlock strode past it and gained access headed into an alleyway that gave access, via the side of the house, to the attic studio. John followed him around the back of the building. The windows at attic level had all been boarded up.

Sherlock looked carefully over the back of the house.

"OK, I suggest we start by getting onto the roof of the shed. We might need to be careful that the people in the house don't spot us. I don't particularly want to upset them if I can help it. We can look for our next foot-hold from up there."

"Can we?"

"Yes. Why, do you have a better option?"

"Yes, actually, I do. Why don't we just use the stair-case up to the door?"

"It's taped over."

"Yes."

Sherlock frowned and turned to look at him. "John, you're a genius."

"No. Lucky for you, Sherlock, I'm not!"

They headed back to the side of the house and Sherlock followed John up the steep iron staircase. There was a very small landing beside the door, and Sherlock was obliged to stand several steps below. John tested the handle, the lock, and the strength of the door. He then held on to the railing behind him and using it to support his weight, he deftly jumped both feet up to the door and kicked hard. The door swung open.

"Your problem, Sherlock, is that you always want to over-complicate things. After you."

"No, please, after you!"

John took out his torch and went into the flat. It wasn't really much of a flat. It was a kitchen/living room/bedroom combined, barely furnished for anything, though relatively clean. The walls were sloped with two dormer windows facing the street and a slanting roof window facing the rear. Part of the rear wall had been sectioned off, to make room for an extremely small bathroom.

"Wow, the police are blind!" Sherlock said, coming in behind him.

"What didn't they spot here?" John asked. "It's not like there's anything to see!"

"Precisely, John! Hugh Boone clearly didn't live here!"

"Who did then?"

"Nobody! That's the point!"

"Then where did Hugh Boone live?"

"In Sevenoaks."

"Do you think he knew Neville Sinclair?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly. "Do you really not get it?"

"I thought you said you'd understand if you were here."

"Yes, and I do now, but I need something from the bathroom first." He barely got into the bathroom before he was reversing out again. He held aloft a packet of baby wipes.

"There was definitely no baby in this flat!" John said. "Babies need far more equipment than is here. They need far more equipment than I ever thought possible."

"You're remarkably stupid sometimes," Sherlock said to him as he walked past. He headed back out of the door and John followed him.

"Where next?"

"To the police station. They've been holding Boone for three days and if they're going to arrest him, they need to do it today. The Sergeant in charge told me he'd like to charge him for murder, but can't without a body or proof of death. Boone has apparently been happy to sit it out, knowing that they have to find evidence against him or let him go free."

"And you're going to solve the whole thing with baby wipes are you?"

"Yes I am, John. I'd like to be smug about that but in all honestly I'm mildly ashamed that I took quite so long to get it. Mycroft would have a field day if he knew. Taxi!"

He hailed the cab down and John got in after him. "Why aren't we going in the car?"

"Oh, I'd forgotten about it."

"How are you going to get it back to Sevenoaks?"

"It's fine. Neville Sinclair can drive it home."

He refused to say anything else until they reached the police station. John briefly tried to solve the case but quickly just abandoned it and settled down to enjoy Sherlock's big reveal. He followed Sherlock into the police station where Sherlock asked at the desk for Sergeant Readman.

A middle-aged Sergeant came out of an office to see him.

"Ah, Mister Holmes. You're here about Boone, at a guess?"

"Yes. Have you released him yet?"

"Not yet. I've got another two hours yet. I'm not entirely sure that we will be releasing him."

"How's your case going?"

"Not bad, Mister Holmes, not bad."

"Can I see him please?"

"I'm not sure we have a room free at the moment."

"I'll see him in his cell, it's fine. You should come too. I'm fairly sure I'm about to extract some information that will help you no-end."

The sergeant shuffled for a moment, the nodded and led them down some stairs to the holding cells. He walked to the last cell and opened it.

It was as dull and dreary a room as anyone might expect for a police station holding cell. Sherlock walked in and John followed him. He frowned as he looked at the scars covering Hugh Boone's face.

"I think you've begun to see it, haven't you, John," Sherlock said, delighted.

"My God!" John said.

"What? What is it?" Sergeant Readman asked.

Sherlock ripped open the packet of baby wipes and pulled a handful out. Hugh Boone startled away for a moment before he sat still and gave a resigned smile.

Sherlock rubbed hard across his forehead and John and Sergeant Readman watched as the scar pulled away to reveal pink, healthy flesh beneath. A few more rubs and most of the rest had fallen away too, including a small piece of clear plastic string that had been holding Boone's lip in such a strange position. In a few moments, Neville Sinclair sat there, staring back at them, looking mildly ashamed.

"Bit difficult to arrest someone for murdering themselves, don't you think, Sergeant Readman?" Sherlock said.

"Bloody hell!" the sergeant answered.

"I really need to know something," Sherlock said to Sinclair. "Why didn't you write the whole of the address on the envelope? Why did you just write the name?"

"And while that's an interesting question," John said, "I'm much more interested in why you gave up your job in the bank, assumed a new identity, plastered yourself in make-up and went to work as a concierge?"

Sinclair smiled. "I didn't. I didn't give up my job at all, I lost it. I'd been doing well! I'd been there twenty years! More than that! But then I made a couple of wild, stupid, mistakes trying to keep up with the new blood and it all went horribly wrong! The house is paid off years ago, so that's OK, but there's the rest of it. We have a heated swimming pool, for goodness sake! Do you know how much one of them costs in maintenance and electricity? Fiona's lovely, but she likes to go riding and Charlie wanted to go to university, so I had to go and get something else, but who wants to hire an old banker who's made big losses and been sacked for it?

"I came in to London every day and usually just sat in hotel lobbies waiting for something to happen. And then something did but not in the way I had thought. I made friends with one of the lads on the desk. His name's Adrian. He got his cousin a job at the Harrington. They have to work together mostly, but Jamie's very popular with the guests and he's very good at smiling and showing them around and carrying their bags. If he needs help with other tasks, Adrian helps him out. Adrian gets good tips from the customers, but Jamie gets _great_ tips from them. He's got Down's syndrome you see. Not too badly, but more than would make him able to work alone or in a different job.

"So the three of us got to talking about it, and Adrian and Jamie agreed that they'd like to get me a job there too, and I could cover any of Jamie's shifts that Adrian couldn't make. And then I got to thinking, I wondered who else might qualify for really big tips. There are a lot of American business people at the Harrington, and it seemed to me that the Americans really like a war hero. There was the added bonus that if I were heavily scarred, then no one from my old life would recognise me. It took me a while to get the right make up and stuff, and they weren't sure at first, at the Harrington when I went to interview with all my get-up, but they agreed to give me a trial.

"The customers were great! I was polite, I knew all about London and I could give them hints and tips and the like. And there was the added bonus that they all started out shocked at my appearance, then they were embarrassed that they'd been shocked, then they'd feel guilty about it all and then the wallets would come out. I ended up making more than I'd ever have thought possible. And we took all the tips; me, Adrian and Jamie, and we split them all three ways.

"And then who should turn up out of the blue but Fiona! I'd never have expected to see her there! I thought I was safe in that area!"

"She knew your work address," Sherlock said.

"I know, but she'd never come to meet me before. Anyhow, I screamed, jumped out of the way, got rid of my home clothes and quickly put the slap on before the police came in. It was strange, Fiona not recognising me. I think it must have been the contact lenses. I was brought here, and here I am."

"But the _envelope_," Sherlock persisted.

"Oh, I used my phone call to get Adrian down here. I'd need him to cover for me at work for one thing, and I wanted to use him to get a letter to my wife too. I wrote her name on the envelope, but then he said I'd better not put the address in case someone checked and wondered why I had the name and address of my alleged victim's wife. We agreed that he'd write it on when he got back."

"You needn't have bothered," Sherlock told him. "They didn't check."

"Oh well. Anyhow, the plan was to basically wait it out. I hadn't murdered anyone, I was fairly sure they wouldn't be able to actually arrest me or anything. If they'd have tried I could just come clean, but I'd prefer to keep the role if I could. I was going to wait until they freed me, and then go back to Fiona as myself; she'd call off the missing person search and back to business as usual on Monday. No harm done!"

"No harm done!" John yelled. Sherlock turned and was surprised to find him enraged. He thought briefly of Fiona's anguish.

"Have you ever done a day's active service ever?" John yelled. "Doesn't even have to be military service. Have you ever done a day's service to the community in any way shape or form? No! I didn't think so. But you were quite happy to pretend, weren't you! What did you do? Make it up from what you'd seen on films?"

Sinclair stammered in the face of John's fury.

"You know what?" John continued, "You're worthless scum! I don't even care that you don't trust your wife and son enough to tell them you'd lost your job. I'm not even that concerned about poor Fiona, who's worried sick and who's heated swimming pool is not helping with that. But I do care about the people who are out there at bloody war being the sort of person you couldn't come close to being! They're kids out there! Some are probably the same age as your boy and you know what? The go out there because they're told to and they know how to be soldiers. It's hot, they don't have enough armour or weapons or even basic fucking cooking equipment and they go out there every day and do something that you're too god-damned lazy and greedy to do!

"There was a seventeen year old who had his leg blown off and he sat there just looking at what was left and I was patching it up and he said to me 'what do I do now?' He was on the field next to the body of his mate, and his foot that was at the other side of the road and he said 'what do I do now?' And do you know what he's doing now? He's working minimum wage at a care home in Southend wearing a cheap NHS prosthetic. And you, you worthless, lying piece of scum are stealing glory that you never bloody well earned! And you know what else? Jamie has earned his tips by working hard and you and your mate Adrian are stealing from him too!"

John turned on his heel and marched from the room. Sherlock gave the Sergeant a surprised look for a moment and then hurried after him.

He caught up outside.

"Are you OK?"

"Yes. I'm fine. Sorry. I lost my temper a touch in there."

"No, no. I didn't notice."

John pulled a face and then smiled. "Sometimes, Sherlock, and I know you're not going to understand this because this is your life and it's what you do and you love it, but sometimes I'm really pleased that I can forget all about people like that and go home to my lovely wife and look forward to our lovely daughter."

Sherlock nodded. "Or son."

John giggled. "Yep, or our son." He sighed. "Let's go home."

"I'll drop you at yours, go and get changed and I'll be back with you within the hour."

"For what?"

"The nursery. You said you needed help!"

"Oh. I didn't think that you'd do it though."

"No. If you say it's my duty as a godless-father then that's what I'll do."

"All right then. Let's go. I'm in desperate need of a hug." Sherlock opened his arms. "Not from you, you daft sod!" He set off to look for a cab.

oOo

That afternoon they sat side by side on the floor of the nursery. The walls were painted but devoid of small gold-leaf squares. Spread across the floor there were a number wooden posts and poles, a large number of screws and washers and an unfolded page of instructions. Neither of them was showing much sign of activity.

"I made tea for you," Mary said, coming in. She handed mugs across and looked at the debris on the floor. "It's going well then."

"We're just thinking about it," John told her.

"Thinking about what?"

"We're thinking about the best way to proceed."

"John thinks if we just muster our courage and read the instructions, we'll be able to get it done in about half an hour," Sherlock told her. "I'm more in favour of hiring a professional."

"Technically it doesn't need to be done today," she pointed out. "It'll sleep in the Moses basket for the first few months."

"No, let's get it all done," John said. "Goodness knows when Sherlock will be back to help."

Mary suddenly caught her breath and her hand stroked over her bump. "It's kicking up a storm today," she said. "It must have missed your snoring last night, John." She sat down on a box.

Sherlock had moved towards. "Wow! You can really see it on the outside!"

"Yes, you can."

Sherlock stared at her bump. He moved closer until his nose was just inches away. The baby kicked again and he laughed, excitedly. His hand went tentatively up.

"Sherlock, that's not polite," John told him. Sherlock's hand went down again but he didn't move.

The baby kicked again and he turned to John.

"Did you see that? I think it's going to be into martial arts or something. I'll teach it to swordfight if you want."

"Has John mentioned whether it's a boy or a girl at all, Sherlock?"

He didn't look away from the bump. "Surely you can't tell until after it's born."

"Sometimes you can tell from the scan," she told him.

"I never knew that," he said.

Mary smiled. "You can touch it if you want."

Sherlock's hand went up instantly. He very tentatively put his hand over the site of the kicks. He waited a moment then laughed again.

"It kicked me! John! Your baby just kicked me!"

"You're a lucky, lucky sod, Sherlock Holmes," John said, smiling. "Here, have this screwdriver and make this cot."

* * *

**What next? **

**Pip  
**


End file.
